TanEgg

    After aeons of endless swimming, I arrvived at the beacon. My robes were dripping, and my hair was tousled with loose strands of seaweed. Still, I felt nothing apart from elation and joy as I stepped onto dry land, and found... a house. A blessing for weary souls, a shelter for the lonely. It had a azure- coloured roof top and clean white walls- the typical Sea person's house. But what set it apart from the average household was the gigantic dome- a lighthouse, I guessed. That was probably where the light came from. As I approached the house, I found the door slightly ajar, amd the sweet aroma of porridge filled the air. It was now mornin

    I was floating aimlessly in the rough, dark seas when I saw hope itself, presented to me in the form of a shining, pulsing, beckoning beacon of light. THe light flickered before my weary eyes, weathered by the harsh winds that blew from the north. The light shimmered and blinked, like a vaporizing mirage. I swam furiously towards it, although my hands ached with every stroke. I yelled in pain as my taut muscles were tightened again, but I swam on, for I feared I would lose hope again, because, by then, I had already given up all hope of seeing the sky's blue again. As the days passed as I floated on the sea, I realised that the sea's azur

In life, we are all lonely. All walking separate ways, Rarely seeing each other. We never find friends. We are alone. When we trek across the desert and look back, We only see traces of our footprints. When we ask for a friend, We only hear the fading echoes of our voices. When we yearn to hear laughter, We only hear the tinkling of bells. When we gaze at the stars, We only feel our eyes pierce the heavens. But... Can we truly be lonely? Could the footprints be left... When our friends carried us over the sand dunes? Could the echoes be heard... When our friends were asking us for friendship? Could the tinkling of bells be heard... W

    The sea.    The sea.    Great, unseen currents swirling in its blue depths, foamy waves crashing on the sandy surface. A whole expanse of frothing, churning blue. A great tidal wave crashed over me, and I could taste the water. Strangely, it was salty. I had only drunk water from the well in my backyard, and the water had tasted sweet, but not salty. Why...?     It was not until then that I started to feel ashamed.     I had never thought that living in the sky was a privilege. Compared to living near the powerful, mysterious sea, living above was surely great. I had also thought that knowing everything above was a great accomplis

    The well stood impatiently before me. I racked my brains and still couldn't find the answer. Suddenly, I was distracted by a group of miners. They ran past me, their mining tools clanging in the metal buckets the brought everywhere. Probably off to destroy my sky, I thought bitterly. A sudden thought came to my mind: bucket! I quickly fished out the metal bucket, stood in it and held tightly the rope used to haul up the bucket. If I let go, I might die, but at least it was worth a try. I let go and grabbed the other end of the rope.    The tough rope scraped my fingers as I clutched at it for dear life. The world whizzed around me as I

    As the days passed, less and less was left of my beloved shade of blue. The miners mined it all away. My world darkened and it rained every day in my heart. I would envy the naive children, running around without any worries. I longed to grow up,  when I was their age. Growing up meant I could mine a piece of the sky for myself eventually. Growing up meant I could live without fear of the howling storms and dark nights. Growing up meant I could help my mother with her work... But now, after growing up, how ironic it is. I wanted to become a small child once again, to sleep cradled in my mother's arms, to play merrily with the other childr

People say that black is black. That orange is orange. That red is red. That blue is blue. But they don't see that Silver isn't white, Or pencil-lead-gray isn't black. They just see the colours outside, The sophisticated shell, The vibrant clothing. Not the real colour inside. Just the mere outside. People think that black paper is useless. "No one can see what you're writing." They think that pencils are cheap. "They're not vulnerable." They just don't know Which things are truly useless. Because, If you write with pencil on black paper, The words turn out to be Silver.

Suspended for a second, glowing. Then plummeting down, falling. Perhaps- my end? Fated to die, without a friend? No left- behind memories. Unknown legacies. Destined to end with a- The ground draws near. My utmost fear. I flail, And fail. The air rushes below me. Eventually I have to accept what will be Of me- To die. Will it truly be my end? Maybe. Can I survive? Let's see. I'm not scared any more. Death has to come after all. I no longer flail Everything will fail. Eternities also come to an end By the hands of the end. I already foresee my death. With me I take my final breath.

    One dreary spring day, I was awoken by the ruthless hammering sounds of pickaxe hitting on glass. The hollow, metallic sound echoed in my soul. Bang bang bang... The miners who came here to fulfill their own greed tore out the sky, they dragged the blue out of its hiding place and crushed it to pieces. I recall crying, crying so loudly on the streets as gray flakes of the sky fluttered down to earth, like tears; like rain; like broken fragments of a heart. My heart.    One must know when to stop, but unfortunately that never happens.    The greedy miners didn't know that in order to have the blue, they could not take it away. Somethin

    As the years passed, the long summer days lengthening into long winter nights, I grew up a happy child. I never feared the murky depths of night, or the frightening howls of the wind, because I knew that there would always be a part of the sky- my small piece of the sky- that would always be blue. At night, the stars would keep me company throughout the dark night, and journey through the heavens as I slept below their watchful eyes when it was too dark to see that vibrant shade of blue. At daytime, the rising sun's rays would ignite my piece of the sky, and it would reflect the rosy hues of dawn on the peeling walls of my small room. Tho